


And In This Life

by xel



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Ch. 10: Meddling Mom Ana with a side of Pharmercy, Ch. 11: Pharah & Mercy, Ch. 1: Mercy & Pharah, Ch. 2: Genji & Zenyatta, Ch. 3: Genji & Mercy, Ch. 4: Hanzo & Genji, Ch. 5: Pharah & Mercy, Ch. 6: Sombra, Ch. 7: Pharah & Mercy, Ch. 8: Pharah & Mercy/Ana & Reinhardt, Genres: Light angst/Humor/Introspection/???, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-27
Updated: 2016-11-30
Packaged: 2018-08-17 14:11:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 8,812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8147039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xel/pseuds/xel
Summary: Wherein the agents of Overwatch deal with ... everything ... the best that they can. [Unrelated ficlets]





	1. Chapter 1

**Half Life**

_Angela "Mercy" and Fareeha "Pharah"_

* * *

 

‘I don’t understand,’ says Fareeha, head resting in Angela’s lap, an arm draped over her thighs. Angela runs a hand idly through her hair and marvels at the gloss of it; illuminated by the TV in front of them. The world outside is inky and dark - the deepest trench in an ocean. It has drawn Angela in and enchanted her as an angler fish might.

‘What don’t you get?’ replies Angela, only half paying attention to the other woman’s words, the story on the television, the distant hum of the streetlights outside. Always buzzing. Sound, indefinite sound.

Everyone is asleep.

‘How could you possibly like this kind of show…?’

Angela laughs, her eyes flicker to the television; a man with graying hair is narrating the details of a murder: A fellow who killed his wife’s lover and then his wife.

Angela is still caught in Fareeha’s hair; and always half caught in the warmth of her skin, pressed firm against her thighs; caught in the way she breathes, and how her sides rise and fall when she sighs; caught in the thrill of possibly being the one to stay up later, so that she can hear the almost snores Fareeha breathes out (can see the crease between Fareeha's brows relax and fade into the early morning, can watch streaks of golden sun run across her skin as it rises in the window to their left.) Her mind is filled with nearly everything _but_ the particulars of the show on the telly. It’s a rerun anyway.

'After all the things we see,’ says Fareeha, drawing Angela back to the present momentarily, 'I assumed you would avoid bloodshed when possible ... outside of work.’

Angela rests her hand on Fareeha’s bicep, thinks for a moment, staring into the impossibly dark distance of the world outside the window. Finally, and with some hesitation, she answers:

'The show isn’t really about the act of murder.’ Angela pauses, and Fareeha remains as impassive as a stone, and deathly quiet. 'It’s about the resolution. For the people who lost someone. It’s about justice.’

Fareeha says nothing, but the way she tenses under Angela’s hand is a good indicator that there are thoughts buzzing under Fareeha's skin, silenced by will alone.

Fareeha may no longer believe in the system, Angela realizes. Her morality and her judgment do not align with it any longer.

Fareeha holds herself to a standard most people could never hope to achieve. Certainly not an entity - a government - which must think not of what is _right_ and what is _wrong_ (or the justification of these stark contrasts) - but what is beneficial to the whole.

She and Fareeha live in a gray area of moral ambiguity. Trying to make the world a better place sometimes means being an awful person, Angela thinks, the realization eating her alive.

Crime shows are rarely so gray. They are black and they are white. In them, someone has committed a crime; and at the end of the hour, the viewer knows who it was and that they are safely in jail.

'It’s comforting to know that there can be retribution,’ Angela says, not voicing her fears or her sorrows. Fareeha nods silently, seems to know what cannot be spoken. Angela returns to running her hand through her hair, the conversation lost.

And later, Angela hears the tell tale almost snores which indicate Fareeha has fallen asleep; and in the half light of the nearly pitch black break room, Fareeha is a silhouette of her greatest aspirations. Alive with the courage to make their world a better one, resting in the dreams which push her forward - always she moves forward. Angela sees her potential in that dark, dark room, and all of Angela's hopes and prayers rest on the woman snoring in her lap.

Angela doesn’t say it allowed, not even when she is the only one awake to hear it, she doesn’t know that either of them can afford to dwell on the implications - but in that half light and the dawn that follows it, the life after that, she wonders if this isn’t love.


	2. Chapter 2

**Transcendence**

_Genji and Zenyatta_

* * *

 

The morning air is crisp - dew on the blades of grass. And light: gold, on orange, on violent red in the atmosphere. Burning its own beauty. Genji sets his eyes on that horizon, inhaling and exhaling in measured breaths, his thoughts are singular: what this act of being used to feel like, what it used to smell like, how it used to move forward - as if independent of death.

Meditation alleviates the want, the desire, of the senses but the memories of life linger like rust between hairline plates of metal. He has tried in the past, but he cannot reach to clean the decay away.

‘Genji,’ says Zenyatta, beside him, breaking Genji’s thoughts into more bearable fractures of those same thoughts.

They, ( _'Zenyatta,' Genji prays to the name and repeats it like a mantra, tethering him to this reality)_ are an entity within themselves, at peace with the world. ‘Please, try not to dwell on the dreams you cannot obtain.’

In Genji’s mind it’s easier said than accomplished, but he breathes deeply and the action is almost as sweet as the air he cannot taste.

'Yes, master,’ Genji says.

The sun is alive, moving up over the curve of the earth - when Genji watches it, it is real. What Zenyatta has been teaching him is that it is no more real than the flower he imagines when his eyes are closed before sleep; that other world are hidden in the absence of sensory and no less real for it.

Zenyatta lives in the absence of sensory, finds peace in the knowledge that reality is subjective.

Genji isn’t quite there, but his master’s presence is a helium balloon which allows for the weightlessness of infinite possibilities, and forgiveness. Affirmation is an anchor to a world which is not entirely real, but not quite irrelevant either.

'I feel lost,’ confesses Genji, after a time - when the thoughts have become convoluted and distorted.

'As you should. Find peace in what you cannot obtain,’ says Zenyatta, and they are majestic, multi-handed, connected to a web Genji cannot see, and connected to the world Genji cannot feel. And they are so, so beautiful in this way.

Everything is beautiful, but nothing makes sense, and Genji is grasping at blades of grass, made damp by the dew of morning (it's new, he thinks, it will never be this way again) hoping for stability. Hoping for gravity to fail him.

But breathing, always breathing. In spite or in redemption he will not say. 


	3. Chapter 3

**A Sheep in Wolf's Clothing**

_Genji and Angela_

* * *

 

‘You’re looking well, Genji,’ says Angela one morning, catching Genji at the edge of a cliff, overlooking the sea, breathing in the salty air. The horizon is dark, dark gray: a storm swirling in the distance. Both of them know it's an inevitable future.

They haven’t had a true and proper conversation since the recall.

And the sun is also rising, just barely breaking over the curve of the earth - fighting hard to peak pink light through the cloud coverage, reflecting in the water, the higher it gets into the sky the less it will shine. But dark days have their own merits.

Genji watches as Angela takes a seat beside him. Her back to the ocean, she is watching the watch point; _for signs of movement_ , Genji thinks, though no one is awake.

‘I am a better man now,’ says Genji, a smile in his voice, and turns to her.

'I’m glad to hear it,’ Angela replies in kind. A pause, 'when Overwatch disbanded, I was worried for you. I was worried for what I had done to you.’ There’s an apology in her voice that Genji doesn’t think needs to be there, but he has never asked the good doctor about her thoughts on his resurrection. When we was younger, he hadn’t wanted to hear anything. He had been so angry and so scared.

'You saved my body,’ says Genji, 'and I found a mentor who saved my soul. Together, I am whole. And I am thankful to both of you.’ Genji can see that something is eating her thoughts, and in his silence he urges her to share.

'It never occurred to me, back then that is, that a person might not have wanted to be brought back to life the way that I brought you back,’ Angela confesses, 'when I first entered into this path in life, I only had one goal: if a person could be saved, no matter the cost, I would save them.’

'You are a good person, doctor,’ says Genji.

'No,’ says Angela, 'I’m not.’ There’s a hint of a bitter smile at the corner of her lips.

Genji thinks idly as he watches the sea become harsh below, waves cresting and collapsing.

Angela is a tricky woman because she stands firm on her principles, her morality, her beliefs which tell her that death is wrong, that causing pain is wrong, and he wonders how she reconciles her ideals with her reality.

'Angela,’ he says, before he’s sure he should be saying anything at all. His tongue runs away from him, 'why did you answer the recall?’

For a moment, she is eerily silent and Genji wonders if it isn’t his place to ask these kinds of questions.

'I’ll let you in on a secret,’ she finally says, sights set far beyond Genji’s shoulder, eye hollow, face carefully crafted to reveal nothing. 'Pacifists may not go to hell, but they don’t go to heaven either.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all want to know a song that I absolutely love, but that is also crazy depressing? ...Go look up Still by Daughter. ;) This chapter and that song don't really have the same meaning, but it did inspire me to write this. 
> 
> Also, if you feel so inclined, drop me a comment. (And have a good night, too!)


	4. In This Life

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I figured I should give meaning to the title of this entire collection. 
> 
> But also ... does anyone ever wonder what the conversation between Hanzo and Genji was like when Hanzo came to him to join Overwatch? Because I do.

**In This Life**

_Genji and Hanzo (Familial)_

* * *

 

He should have known; perhaps he should have known. Perhaps he should have heeded the fear - when he felt the curdled acid rising up his throat; perhaps he should have listened to the man in his mind during meditation who begged him _please, walk away from this burden and this life_.

In this life there are choices, and answers that must be given, and the answer he gave; he gave an answer. It cost him nothing. It cost him everything. It cost him a brother.

In that life there were choices. In the next life there will be choices. In this life there are choices.

In this life.

In this life, not the next.

In this life, not the last.

‘Do not cry, Hanzo,’ says Genji.

Hanzo is on his knees. Hanzo may never raise from his knees again; the madness and maddening relief of maybe, maybe - of being more than a man, more than a murderer. He doesn’t deserve this forgiveness.

In this life, there are choices and in this life he choose wrong and in this life demons crawl in the shadows, taunting _murderer, murderer_ and in this life Hanzo grabs Genji’s calves, wraps his arms around cold steel praying for forgiveness: _please forgive me, I will follow._

In this life Genji cannot feel the warmth of his brother’s arms, nor the chill of his tears, but in this life Genji is alive, so alive, and so at peace and finally, finally free.

'I will rust if you keep at this,’ he says instead, a smile, a hand on Hanzo’s head.

In this life, there are choices and Hanzo has made his.


	5. Chapter 5

**An Interlude on Plant Reproduction**

_Fareeha and Angela_

* * *

 

 “Fareeha, are you listening?”

“Angela,” Fareeha says, kissing Angela’s neck; her fingers stop, reluctantly, tracing secret words over Angela’s thighs, knowing Angela has found her niche, and any romantic intent has taken a back-burner to this new teaching opportunity. Nerds, beautiful and awe-inspiring as they are, prioritize the pursuit of knowledge above almost anything else, Fareeha has (somewhat reluctantly) accepted. “You have to stop.” But Angela is relentless: "It is really very interesting though..."

Fareeha groans in defeat, collapses on top of Angela, her full, unhindered weight is, no doubt, heavy. If Angela notices, she’s has no complaints; she buries her face in Fareeha’s neck, and chuckles softly. Disturbing the dark hair, braided intricately. Angela is breathing lightly under Fareeha, likely due to the compression. Her inhales, raising the other woman and Fareeha falls again, just as easily. Fareeha is always falling for Angela. Over and over.

And she is dressed only in black underwear, Angela wearing less - and maybe she wants to do more, but years of schooling have taught Angela so much that Fareeha knows she’s equal parts excited to share, and maybe sheepishly aware that they've completely derailed. All of which is confirmed when Angela grins apologetically.

"Okay, okay," Angela promises, "just a little bit more, and then we can continue...?" Fareeha nods and can feel the smile pressed against her burning flesh. Angela continues: "Plants mostly reproduce asexual, but occasionally also due to the reproductive components of a dual gender system. And experiments utilizing the study of plant reproduction have been used to cement scientific standards which are now the staple of many current biological teachings - the Punnet Square, for instance...” she trails off. 

Angela’s entire face is beet red. Fareeha raises to rest on her forearms long enough to stare into Angela’s eyes, full of intrigue and Fareeha is warring in equal parts admiration and arousal.

“This is not exactly what I expected,” she admits, “when I asked you about the scientific process of reproductive … I was thinking it would maybe be sexy.” There's a pause in the breath between them. Then:

“I got carried away,” Angela concedes, her eyes are bright with mirth and her skin is still red-tinged. Fareeha chuckles, falls to Angela’s side.

“You are such a nerd,” she says simply, pulling the other flush against her, not a hair between the two. Kissing her neck, hoping to resume. Fareeha can feel the excited energy under Angela’s skin, though, waiting for an outlet.  

“You want to keep on talking about plant sex?” asks Fareeha after a moment, resigned to this twist of fate. Angela nods. A sigh. “I’m listening,”

She’s not, really, her focus is on the other woman’s soft skin, animated features in the dim light of her Overwatch dorm room. Her thoughts are miles away, or perhaps her thoughts are as close as the sheets between them. And she has no interests in plants, but still she nods when appropriate and tries to pay attention; the cuddling is enough, a beautiful reprise or rare occasions where they are both safe and together. That is worth everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was asking for prompts on Tumblr because thinking is hard, and I got a couple, too - which makes me ridiculously happy!
> 
> I'm working on the others but here's the first one from earp-haught: [ "Talk dirty to me" "*explains in technical terms how plants reproduce" "oh my god you're such a nerd shut up and cuddle me" ]
> 
> (a cleaned up and all-together better version of what went up on Tumblr, I have to say haha) 
> 
> And if any of you all have prompts, feel free to drop me a comment with them - that'd be just swell *finger guns*


	6. Chapter 6

**Project Sombra**

_Sombra_

* * *

 

It’s self interest, Sombra knows.

Sombra’s read every headline, seen every article - has made a mockery of the omnics and the men who want to move the omnics.

Everyone is guilty; no one is innocent. There’s an underlining current of classism and suppression; Sombra, who has grown up as the hidden entity behind computers - a simple girl from Mexico - knows as no one else can possibly know, this is a revolution, a testament, a chess game.

Sombra is both the queen and the king:

The piece that needs no guidance, the vulnerable shadow, bathed in effervescent genius, tactician.

And the figure of action, bathed in glorious blood, spotlight, every media outlet finds a star and shines brighter than the sun.

Sombra is a persons but also a person. Sombra is an idea, but also an outlet. Sombra is the thought, sitting up at night - now’s the time to shape the world, to end a war, to be the catalyst, move the cattle.

Now’a the perfect time to start a revolution.

Start with Volskaya, make a statement, she thinks. Put everyone on even ground, she thinks. Talon, Overwatch … structure is the fatal flaw.

There’s a girl with a name, she lives in Dorado, she watches the news and her mother and hears the gun pop, violent, violent, rain down, ammunition. Crime town.

Thinks to herself, I can stop this - stop it all - gives up the name, the origin, the town. If this is what it takes, keep the city safe, now. This is what it takes.

The girl is gone, but Sombra never will be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got stupid drunk last night and wrote a character study of Sombra. Because apparently that's what I do when I'm drunk. I didn't remember that it existed until a couple hours ago haha..... aaah


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leave me in my pharmercy hell hole. I love them so much. :')

**Curve of the Earth**

_Fareeha "Pharah" and Angela "Mercy"_

* * *

 

Fareeha is at the edge of the earth, high enough up that her breathing is shallow in the thinning atmosphere; just at the peak of what the Raptora can handle. This night of the new moon means that in the cold air outside the destroyed and abandoned, secluded, Swiss base, every star in the eastern hemisphere is iridescently bright against the black midnight sky.

Fareeha’s thrusters are propelling her forward at nearly fifty kilometers an hour and she is trying. She is trying so hard to out run the great lion, Leo, but it follows.

It follows in the same way her squad mates had followed, how she had followed in her mother’s footsteps. How she follows the rules of the governing councils who sit in their chairs and never see a drop of blood…

She wishes that everything would stop following this path. That her life would not always feel like such a catalyst; it feels like it is too much.

The wind feels like it is ripping into her skin, Raptora’s weight feels heavy on her person, the open skies feel restrictive.

The glittering stars of this great constellation feel like they are penetrating Fareeha’s mind; gazing long into her and her inadequacies saying: “face my judgment; so many have died because of you.”

Suddenly Fareeha’s breathing is erratic and even though she had come out here to race her demons, they have caught her, exposed and unable to fight back. She kicks off her thrusters, enjoys the panic of a free fall; is not suicidal, has never been, but still waits longer than she should have to slow her descent. She lands unsteadily and too hard, the impact is unpleasant on her bones, she feels something like a pop in her knee, falls to all fours to catch herself and then throws off her helmet and let’s out a groan of pain.

It’s snowing.

Angela is sitting on a rusted bench which somehow survived in front of the rubble of the old headquarters; and she has not said a thing.

But she is watching. Always watching. Always waiting for the call for aid. Fareeha hasn’t asked yet, does not want to really. (Wants to desperately.)

Fareeha feels cold, her metal prosthetics which feel nothing, also offer no warmth. She stands, removes her chest plate and back plate, and stumbles over to Angela’s bench.

The other woman is drinking from a thermos and hums when she takes a sip. Angela sits down beside her.

“It’s a bit late to be doing aerial training,” Angela says, though they both know that’s not what Fareeha had been doing. Fareeha says as much. Angela hums.

“You’re being reckless. Both with your suit, but also with your body,” Angela says. Fareeha does not really feel badly about her control over either.

“I wanted to think, my mind is clearest in the sky,”

A stretching silence falls between then. Angela, who does not seem to be affected by the snow, looks tiredly out into the distance. Fareeha shivers beside her. The snow seeping into her hair and the cold into her skin.

“How did you know I would be here?” Asks Fareeha after a time.

“I didn’t,” replies Angela, scoots closer to her, leans her head on her shoulder. Fareeha is surprised at how warm Angela is, how pleasant her skin feels on her shoulder.

Having been in Switzerland with some other not-Overwatch agents on a mission, Fareeha had wanted to come to the destroyed headquarters because her mother’s memorial rests here, now buried under snow and debris. She forgets, Angela has ghosts here, too, whom she must also have wanted to acknowledge.

Fareeha wraps an arm around Angela, aware that the metal of it will in no way help either of them.

“I am sorry,” she says, without really knowing what it is she’s apologizing for.

“So am I,” says Angela, but her tone bares no uncertainty about the things she regrets. Fareeha wants to ask so many things, but doesn’t.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm getting through some prompts; I actually really liked this one. ;P

******A Game of Telephone**

_Pharah and Mercy; Reinhardt and Ana_

* * *

 

Angela is nibbling at some oatmeal and consuming copious amounts of coffee. It is nearly 6 in the morning, she has yet to sleep, the lights are too bright, the kitchen is too quiet …

It is a welcome relief when Ana walks in, Reinhardt following closely behind. Ana sees her almost instantly, stops short. Angela smiles for her, might have waved, but Reinhardt runs into her, and they both stumble forward. Angela grins when Reinhardt catches Ana, turns her around so she regain her balance, and the falls in her place. The sounds is loud in the stillness of the room. Though the man is thoroughly unfazed.

“You big klutz,” Ana says fondly, and then turns to Angela, “good morning dear,” she says. Angela brings her coffee mug to her mouth to hide the growing smile behind it.

“Good morning,” she echoes, a moment, a stretching silence, “you are both up rather early.”

Reinhardt, who has moved to stand again, laughs, and like all things with Reinhardt, it is boisterous and loud and friendly.

“This beautiful woman kicked me out of bed, Angela!” He explains, mocking indignation, “I was sleeping and then I was on the ground; she has quite the pair of legs!”

Ana crosses her arms, smirks. Angela, who has now known Reinhardt for more of her life than she has not known him, laughs at his expense.

“He hogs the covers,” Ana says, not so much in defense of herself, she seems oddly pleased, and then she heads to the refrigerator.

Angela thinks they’re awfully cute, Reinhardt and Ana. She remembers that they used to dance around each other in old Overwatch, proprietary dictating action. A kiss here, a brush of the hands there. Angela had been very young then; very young and very intelligent, but still she could not understand why they would risk so much just to be with one another. Angela hadn’t understood then, but perhaps that was only because she’d not known anyone herself who she felt was worth the risk to her station. Angela blinks and sees a strong woman in blue armor; in a black sports bra; in the sky, the last rays of a setting sun silhouetting her, and then her eyes open again and the image is gone, but she remains oddly warm and she understands a lot better,

Now, they don’t hide anything, the entire world knows what Reinhardt and Ana are to one another (even Talon agents, who break into their not-so-secure communication channels during battle, poke fun at the old soldiers … particularly Sombra with her “I think it’s time the grandparents retire; go get a beach house!” And Reaper’s “god, you’re even worse than you were before.”)

“To be honest,” says Angela, “given how you monopolize the blankets during movie nights, Reinhardt, I think it would be easier if you simply bought a second one.”

“Ahhhh,” says Reinhardt, and winks, “but it’s more fun this way.”

Angela hums, unwilling to follow the conversation down this path, and sips her coffee.

Ana makes a cup of tea for herself and then one for Reinhardt, turns to Angela.

“We will see you later,” she says, grins, and then they both make to exit. As the doors open and close, Angela hears Ana says something in Arabic, hears a reply which vaguely sounds like “-morning, mother.”

And then hears a new set of footsteps. This time, Angela is more awake.

Fareeha walks in in sweatpants and a baggie t-shirt. She is dripping water, presumably the remnants of her post-run shower, holding a water bottle.

Angela knew she would be here, had left he lab specifically to meet her. Fareeha is nothing is not regimented. Which is not necessarily to say predictable. She is anything but predictable.

Fareeha is halfway to the coffee pot when she notices Angela and a smile graced her features which Angela feels changes the entire atmosphere of the room.

“Hello, doctor,” she greets, forgoes the coffee to take a seat across from Angela. “You look tired,” she says. Angela blinks. Fareeha blinks. Her words play back in her head, and then she stutters out, “er, not in a bad way. You’re beautiful … That is to say, you always look beautiful, even when tired…” her words trail off a bit. She rubs her cheek, swipes the palm of her hand over her left eye and groans, “I am just going to stop now, before I put anymore of my foot in my mouth.” Angela does not know that she has met anyone who is as big a dork as Fareeha Amari. She feels endeared, flirtatious. She says:

“No need to apologize, I also think that you are beautiful,” lets the words sink in, and then adds, “I imagine when tired, too, though as a scientist, I think I’d like to see it to confirm the theory.”

This, Angela is somewhat disappointed though not altogether surprised to discover, goes right over Fareeha’s head. Fareeha simply grins, brushes off the flirting as a compliment with a sheepish “thank you.”

Angela supposes it’s probably to do with Fareeha’s military lifestyle, tough-as-brass mother, focus on other things (protecting the innocent, justice, making the world a better place) which makes it hard for Fareeha to tell when she is being flirted with.

Angela doesn’t mind, it is probably better this way. So, changes the subject.

“They’re cute, aren’t they?” She gestures vaguely to where Ana and Reinhardt have just exited, an easy smile makes it to her lips. Fareeha follows her hand with a quizzical knitting of her brows.

“Who?” She asks. Angela chuckles.

“Ana and Reinhardt.”

There is a long moment of silence, before Fareeha responds:

“I suppose? I have not really thought about it.”

Oh god, think Angela, who has seen Fareeha misread a number of situations and who fears it may be happening again.

“Fareeha,” says Angela, as though sharing a conspiracy, trying not to laugh, “you know that they are in a relationship, right?”

Absolute radio silence.

Several seconds of it.

Fareeha blinks like a doe in headlights, her brows draw together in utter confusion, she opens her mouth, closes it, mutters “what?”

Angela takes a sip from her coffee, nods in an assured way.

“Since when?” Fareeha says; Angela is relieved to find that she does not look offended - presumably because having Ana Amari as a mother involves a lot of secondhand information. From both sides.

Angela shrugs, unwilling to engage in this kind of gossip.

“I am not really sure,” she says.

Fareeha scratches her ear, even with her dark complexion, Angela can see the hints of a blush and it is the best part of her morning.

They sit and talk for a half an hour more, but Fareeha spends a large portion of it distracted, and Angela is, at this point dead on her feet.

She tells Fareeha as much.

“You should go to bed,” Fareeha says, her voice smooth but firm, “had I know, I would not have kept you.”

“You may keep me anytime,” Angela says with a smile, stands, she crosses the table, kisses Fareeha on the cheek in farewell and then leaves. Fareeha, Angela does not see, cannot know, is frozen in place, her body warm, her heart pounding pleasantly in her ears. She chuckles lightly, smiles faintly.

•••••

 

Fareeha is still kind of thinking about the information from Angela, about her mother … and Reinhardt.

She’s on her way to the gym, to take Zarya up on an offer to spar, but the image of her mother, her _mother_ and Reinhardt.

“What is on your mind, Pharah?” Zarya asks, dropping out of a deadlift. “Your expression speaks of conflict; I would not want to knock you out because you are distracted.” She grins. Fareeha grins, too,shuts the door to the gym behind her.

“I have learned some new information this morning,” Fareeha says, “I cannot stop thinking of it.” A pause, “also, I am not sure you could knock me out, even if you tried.”

Zarya grins a wicked grin.

“Is that a challenge?” She says. “I would like to try. But I will not if your head is not in the ring. Can I help?”

Fareeha tapes her hands, gets ready, approaches Zarya.

“No,” says Fareeha, touched by her friend’s offer. For help. Not to knock her out. “Though I am curious, did you know my mother is dating Reinhardt?”

Zarya’s laughter is boisterous and free and a nice sound, though Fareeha does not like that it is at her expense.

“Of course!” Says Zarya, “who does not know?”

Fareeha remains silent.

“Seriously?” Zarya says, and laughs more.

•••••

Fareeha learns that not only did Zarya and Angela know, but so did Lúcio, D.Va, and Tracer (and Widowmaker, Tracer says with a laugh, and blinks away). “Why did no one tell me?” Fareeha asks McCree. “Thought you knew, darlin’” drawls McCree, smiling unhelpfully.

By early afternoon Fareeha is a little annoyed and already on her way to Ana’s room.

She knocks on her mother’s door twice and then twice more, and then a longer time until finally Ana answers.

“Mother!” Fareeha shouts. She can see Reinhardt at the table in the corner of the room, a teapot on it, he is painting a tiny porcelain figure. On the other side of the table is Ana’s rifle, half disassembled. Reinhardt glances up, waves merrily. Fareeha has always admired him, but now she has conflicting feelings…

“Hello beloved,” says Ana. Fareeha looks down at her.

“You and Reinhardt…?” She trails off. Ana raises an eyebrow.

“Yes,” Ana says, a smirk. A glint of the eye. Ana pushes Fareeha out of the doorway, into the hall. Follows, closing the door behind her.

“Why am I the last to hear about this?” Fareeha says, genuinely hurt. “Why did you tell everyone else first?”

Ana crosses her arms, stares Fareeha down, but Fareeha does not relent.

“We didn’t tell anyone, my love,” she says seriously, “as for being the last to hear about it: you must admit, Fareeha, you are not the most observant of the Amaris.”

Fareeha has the good sense to look offended.

“What?” She says, “I am plenty observant. I am a decorated military woman. You do not get that far being blind.”

“Oh stop it,” Ana says, “we both know that isn’t what I’m talking about. You have never done well reading a person’s feelings.”

Fareeha sputters.

“That is not true,” she says. Wants to say more, but Ana cuts her off.

“Aaliyah,” Ana says. Fareeha’s words die in her mouth, a blush of shame creeps up her throat. “That poor girl was so smitten with you and by the time you realized, she had already moved on.”

“That’s not fair, I was very young,” Fareeha responds.

“Oh? Is twenty that young? Fine,” says Ana. Uncrossed her arms, tucks a strand of hair behind Fareeha’s ear. “And what excuse have you got for me this time?” There is a sharp, teasing edge to her voice. Fareeha is quite genuinely confused.

“What do you mean?” She asks. Ana barks out a laugh, let’s the silence drag between them, pats her gently on the cheek.

“With our good doctor?” Says Ana, “who flirts with you entirely too much and none so subtly. If I did not like her so much, I might be inclined to sit her down and have a talk with her.” Fareeha gapes like a fish.

“Angela?” Fareeha says. Ana nods. Fareeha’s brain fizzles a bit and she has to take a moment to let the information process. Ana, seeing that she has probably broken her daughter a bit, grins fondly and excuses herself.

“Let’s have tea tomorrow, ya habibi, after all of this sets in.” And then she walks back into her room and closes the door. Fareeha blinks at the closed door.

•••••

Angela is drinking coffee again, waiting for Fareeha again, reading the news.

At half past 0600 Fareeha walks into the kitchen in sweatpants and a loose t-shirt and Angela smiles pleasantly, feels warm as she always does. Fareeha sees her immediately, in fact, seems to be searching for her. She approaches the bar where Angela is sitting leans against it, she looks noticeably out of breath for someone who has been not running for probably a solid half hour at this point.

“Are you alright?” Angela asks, already raising her hand to the other woman’s forehead.

“Yes,” Fareeha says, “yeah - I just … I have a question?”

Angela drops her hands, says:

“Okay?”

A moment.

“Have you been flirting with me?”

Angela blinks owlishly for a second, and then a smile splits her lips and then she laughs prettily behind her hand. Fareeha looks so flustered and so confused and so adorably unhinged.

“Yes,” Angela says, sparing Fareeha the agony of waiting, “for a few months now.”

“Really?” Says Fareeha. Angela hums an affirmative.

“Is that a problem?” Angela asks, “I can stop, I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

“No!” Fareeha says, clears her throat, Angela finds herself smiling with no reason but hope. “Er, no, no I -” she stops, “actually -” she says, seems to forego trying to articulate her thoughts altogether. Instead, she leans forward, kisses Angela briefly on the lips, a wicked grin gracing her lips.

Angela feels both hot and bothered. Feels giddy and light. Feels happy.

“Well that was nice,” she says, a little airy.

“I’d be happy to do it more often,” Fareeha says with a smirk.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At this point, most of these chapters are coming from prompts submitted to me over on tumblr. I'm a little delayed in posting them here, not least of all because I usually write them on mobile and then when I get on the computer (which is just ... not frequently) I post them to this story. Which is why chapters are usually posted like three at a time. haha ooops. ^^; anyways, enjoy!
> 
> Prompt (given by an anon):
> 
> "Pharmercy prompt: something to do with Fareeha as strike commander - idk I just really like the idea that she could lead overwatch one day!"

**The Good Days**

_Fareeha "Pharah" and Angela "Mercy" (also Ana and Bastion are there)_

* * *

 

Overwatch is officially reinstated to deal with the rising-again omnic discourse around the same time Fareeha takes a bullet in the neck protecting a bastion unit and its little bird.

Fareeha, who worked with, and in her own way, loved, Okoro, knows that the feud between the omnics and people is deplorable at best and heinous at worst.

It had been her sincere pleasure to defend the bastion. Her honor to serve with the renegade band that Overwatch had been. She genuinely believed that she would die. You rarely bounce back from a struck artery. Angela had not been on that mission. Her mother’s healing technology could not mend that kind of wound, and besides, she had been very far away.

So Fareeha is surprised when she blinks, bleary eyed, and sees. And not only sees, but sees the fluorescent and blinding light of a sterile, white room. Looks to her side, light headed and heavily medicated - she knows it should hurt, can feel where it is supposed to - but does not experience the pain. The bastion unit is in the corner, in idle. Ana is in a chair, asleep.

Angela is looking at a computer screen, at her desk tucked in the corner.

Fareeha realizes she’s back at the base. She has never been so glad to see Angela, she thinks she might cry. How is she alive?

It must be the emotions which set off the heart monitor, because Angela swivels around, is out of her chair in a fraction of a second.

“Don’t move,” she instructs, her voice firm and in control but Fareeha sees her hand as she brings up a light to shine in her eye and it is quivering.

‘W-” Fareeha begins, but her throat is dry and it is impossible to get out anymore. Angela lowers the light, Fareeha blinks away the stars and then Angela presses a button and the bed raises and she’s sitting up.

“I’ll get you water,” says Angela and she does. Fareeha drinks it slowly, she’s very lightheaded. Angela waits, and Fareeha is always a little aware of her. But she’s also aware of her mother, and the bastion. When she feels like she can, she tries again:

“What happened?” she says. Angela pinches the bridge of her nose, sighs tiredly.

“I was hoping that you could tell me,” she says, “Ana brought you back here with a cauterized neck wound and a lot of lost blood.” There’s a very silent moment between them. Fareeha can remember the pain, the burning, burning pain, like nothing she’d felt before. Can remember the bastion unit, the torch attached to it’s body for system repairs, up against her neck. Can remember screaming. She squeezes her eyes shut against the memory. “You’ve been given two blood transfusions,” Angela continues, “by Ana. One of them in the field and a bit botched. A proper one here, when I was able to get to you.” Fareeha can tell she is stressed, and tired, and has clearly been through more than her fair amount of turmoil. Still, Angela graces her with a smile and it’s the most beautiful thing Fareeha has ever seen. “Bastion will not leave the room.”

“It saved my life,” Fareeha says, but doesn’t elaborate, and Angela doesn’t ask her to. Which is it’s own sort of blessing - her throat is killing her.

“Did you tell her?” Comes Ana’s voice. They both turn to her. She’s as sneaky as ever, a small smirk gracing her lips. Fareeha sends Angela a questioning glance.

“What?” She asks.

“The UN has reinstated Overwatch,” Angela tells her, “it was announced as official two days ago. Winston has been made the chief of operations.” Fareeha processes the information and, in a groggy way, is pleased.

“He’s asked that you become the new strike commander,” Ana adds after a moment. There’s a strain to her voice that Fareeha is achingly familiar with. “I, of course, fought him, but he was adamant.”

“Me?” Repeats Fareeha. “Not 76? Or even you, mother?”

“There are things that Jack and I cannot do as part of a structured organization. We no longer have ties to Overwatch.” Ana says. Her one good eye is trained like a hawk’s on Fareeha. “Will you say yes, my beloved?” She asks. Fareeha identifies the plea in her mother’s voice. Turns to Angela and sees a steel resolve in the set of the doctor’s face.

“What are you thinking, Dr. Zieglar?” she asks.

"I-” Angela, stops, glances back at Ana, “I think that you are the most qualified. I think that you are brave, and morally sound, and that you are exactly the protector this world needs. You care for omnics and humans indiscriminately. You are so very, very good, Fareeha.” She says, takes a deep breath. “But selfishly, I know what this position can do to a person, and I never want to see you in this medbay, like this,” she waves her arm over Fareeha in a gesture.

Fareeha feels her face burning hot, and she does not mean to, but the words tumble out. Later she will blame it on the medication.

"Not even for casual visits?” she says, a small grin on her face.

Angela goes instantly red and her light complexion makes it harder to hide. Behind her, Ana hisses “Fareeha,” but with no real authority.

“I’m going to accept,” Fareeha says, coughs, gets back on topic. “I want to protect the innocent.”

The bastion unit whirls in the corner. Ana stands from her chair, approaches Fareeha, pats her hand lightly and lovingly.

“I do not approve,” she says fondly.

“I know,” replies Fareeha.

“But I am still so proud of you,” her mother smiles. Fareeha smiles, too.

“I know.”

And then Ana leaves the room and Fareeha is looking at Angela and Angela is looking at Fareeha.

“Thank you, doctor,” she grins. Angela rolls her eyes. Leans forward, closer, closer.

“You protect the innocent,” she says, “and I will always protect you.” And then she kisses her, and Fareeha goes scarlet red.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt (given by an anon):
> 
> "Ana teasing Fareeha over her reaction to Angela's witch costume."

**Mother Knows**

_Ana & Fareeha (and Angela, and also Jack makes an appearance, too.)_

* * *

 

Ana hides a smile behind her teacup and watches her daughter in that way only a mother can watch her child, familiar with all their quirks: the analysis of every breath and twitch of the nose, as if to assert: I’ve read this story before, I know all the twists, and how it ends.

Fareeha, in her Raptora, stands at attention at the threshold into the watchpoint’s “living room” (communal area). Her rocket launcher held at her side, to give the impression that she is listening to Solider: 76 as he reviews the particulars of the mission she has just returned from. Thank the small favors from above that he hasn’t asked her any questions because, Ana can see, her daughter is distracted. And Ana laughs to think what Fareeha would cobble together to try to pretend that she isn’t.

Angela, who is always ready for a holiday, is stringing jack-o-lantern shaped lights over the bay window of the room. Ana has seen this particular outfit before; had seen it when Angela was a teenager and had thought, even then, that perhaps it was too …

.. well, it doesn’t matter, she was an adult, capable of making her own decisions without Ana imposing her opinion. Not then anyway, but now her Fareeha is involved.

Fareeha, sweet, sweet, Fareeha. Ana can see the blush on her cheeks under her helmet. She chuckles faintly to herself.

"Fareeha," Ana calls, cutting Jack off. Honestly, he talks too much; and why debrief on the exact amount of remaining fuel in Fareeha’s thrusters when Overwatch is still unsanctioned and such calculations do not need to be reported to the accounting department for year-end budget tracking?

It doesn’t, that’s what Ana thinks.

Fareeha does not respond, or maybe Fareeha does not quite hear. Ana calls her name again, louder this time, drawing Angela’s attention and belatedly - Fareeha’s too.

Her head snaps to Ana and then, looking embarrassed, back to 76. He grumbles, waves her away.

“We’ll finish the rest later,” he grouches (because he knows when Ana wants something, it’s impossible to fight her) and then pats Fareeha on the shoulder, mutters _good job,_ and heads out of the room.

Fareeha removes her helmet, catching Angela’s eye as Angela is turning back to her decorating; grins and coughs and then moves to Ana’s side.

She cannot sit, on account of the armor, but it’s just as well, Ana stands.

“Are you alright?” Ana asks slyly, a secretive smirk on her lips. Fareeha, who can read Ana just as well, rolls her eyes.

“I am fine,” Fareeha responds, plays the part of a level-headed military woman. Ana is not blind, though, can see the way Fareeha’s eyes flicker over her shoulder - to look at the doctor.

“It’s a good costume,” says Ana, conspiratorially, “don’t you think? A witch? Classic.” Ana sips her tea, Fareeha’s eyes widen a bit and she opens her mouth, closes it again, doesn’t seem to know what to say. "I am surprised she still has it, though. You know, it was around in the golden days.“

“ _Mother_ ,” Fareeha hisses. Ana is not deterred in the slightest.

“I took a picture of her and Torbjörn back then …” Ana trails off, a devilish smirk on her lips, seems to think. She turns on her heel, then, suddenly. Too late, Fareeha realizes what she’s doing, lunges for her mother, to cover her mouth? To turn her back around? Regardless, she fails, ends up with both hands on Ana’s shoulders, a wild look in her eyes, a deep flush on her cheeks.

“Angela!” Ana calls pleasantly, the woman in question turns back around, Fareeha watches the material of the outfit as it rises up her thigh, Angela pulls it back down.

Angela hums a “hmm?” her fingers working at a knot in the string of lights.

“I love your costume! Fareeha and I were just talking about it,” Ana smiles. Fareeha is seeing red. Angela’s head snaps up to look at them. A coy smile on her lips.

“Is that so?” Angela says. “Well you’ve seen it before, but still: thank you.” And then Angela zeros in on Fareeha, and Fareeha is equal parts a flustered mess and an oddly pleased one. Angela smiles kindly. “And what do you think, _Fareeha Amari_?” She asks, there is a playful quip in her tone, in the way she says her name, that Fareeha cannot identify, but it makes her stomach churn in a not altogether unpleasant way, “do you like it?”

Fareeha can hear Ana’s quiet chuckle, can feel it in her hands which rest on Ana’s shoulders.

“Er,” says Fareeha, lamely, “yes, it is … very nice.” She stumbles over her own words and half hopes the ground will swallow her whole. But it almost seems worth it when Angela blushes slightly, smiles and says:

“I’m glad you think so.”

Ana spares Fareeha by turning back to her, continuing their private conversation. But the reprise is short lived.

“You know, sweetheart” she half-whispers, “I am sure that I have a copy of that photo somewhere that I can find for you.”

“Mother!” Fareeha groans, throws her face in her hands, having had enough, properly mortified, she turns heel and promptly scurries out of the room. Ana laughs at her daughter’s expense.

Angela looks worriedly after Fareeha’s retreating figure, having heard nothing, but seen the flustered woman all but run out of the room. Call it concern for a comrade … or for someone a little closer (that’s what Angela will call it).

“Should I go after her?” She asks, “is she alright?”

“She’ll be fine,” Ana replies, “though … I don’t see any harm in checking on her; if you don’t mind?” She smiles innocently. Angela nods.

“Of course not,” she replies, following after.

She does not add: _where Fareeha is concerned, I never mind._ But it does pop up in her thoughts and she is not so surprised by it.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt (given by an anon):
> 
> "What if Fareeha has a phobia that's unexpected somehow? eg acrophobia(OH THE IRONY) or something funny, and nobody knows that the normally brave and stoic Fareeha can actually be scared?"
> 
> __
> 
> Something funny turned out not to be funny. :')

**Fall to the Earth and Breathe**

_Fareeha "Pharah" and Angela "Mercy"  
_

* * *

 

The thing about irrational fears is that they are just that … irrational. They make no sense. None at all.

Fareeha has not tried to explain the experience. Has not wanted to try to find the words to describe the feeling of inevitability. (The worst experience in the world is one which Fareeha deals with everyday. She lies to herself, says it will make her strong.) Has not wanted to try to defend herself. She is not ashamed.

… Perhaps she is a little ashamed.

A fear of moderate heights, for someone who spends a large portion of her day-to-day at extreme heights is _irrational_.

Still, it’s manageable. She does not climb up trees, or roofs. Will not stand on cliff edges. Mutes the communication channel for the twenty or so seconds it takes to descend from her discomfort zone to the ground. She will not let them hear her hyperventilate. No one is the wiser.

It is manageable.

It is manageable until it isn’t.

“I do not want it,” says Fareeha, who is normally a bit stoic, but never unjustly so.

Angela is not in the mood for a battle of wills. She is tried and she is trying to save lives.

“I am installing it in everyone’s armor,” Angela replies, “if I can have a constant read on your vitals, I will know when I need to come to your aid.”

Fareeha clenches her jaw, looks purposefully just above Angela’s head, protectively positioned between her and the Raptora.

“Install it in everyone else’s. Not in Raptora.”

Fareeha knows she is being ridiculous. Knows Angela is only trying to help; Angela only ever wants to help. Still, she will not be persuaded.

Something flashes across Angela’s face and Fareeha recognizes it as the same look her mother used to give her right before she’d said _“I’m doing this because I love you.” When Fareeha applied to Overwatch and Ana came home that night with her application, ‘rejected’ written in the top in her mother’s script._ It is not a declaration of love, but it is a declaration of that tender emotion which comes with concern for the welfare of those you care about. The idea that a person knows what’s best for another person, independent of reason - based solely in feeling.

Fareeha wants to feel sorry, but will not allow herself. She is an adult, she is capable of taking care of herself.

“Fareeha,” Angela says, she sounds so tired, “I want your permission on this … but if I have to, I will get Solider: 76 to allow it…”

Later that afternoon, they both stand in 76’s presence. Angela argues her case, Fareeha tries to defend hers but fails. Ultimately, Angela is granted the permission to install the equipment. Fareeha clenches her jaw and salutes because she is a solider, and a solider does not argue against their command officer. A solider thinks of the group before themselves. A solider betrays no fears. Still.

Fareeha feels something like betrayal.

* * *

The next mission they’re assigned to takes them to the desert, bullets rain down and Fareeha rains down justice. But because the world is cruel, and does not care about the struggles of one individual, towards the end of the fight, her fuel tank depletes. Fareeha is cursing in three different languages as she finds a rock to take cover under.

Because it is habit she mutes the comms just as she’s nearing that crucial point where she is not high enough to be safe, not low enough to run, where she sits like a target and feels the most exposed. Her vision tunnels, her ears ring, her breathing is short and erratic. She counts to five then down from five then to negative five as the psych evaluator who cleared her for the army had instructed.

This time there is yelling in her ear. A private communication channel has been opened between she and Mercy through no action of her own and Mercy is panicky.

“Pharah?” She barks, “ _Pharah, report!_ ”

Fareeha lands; her boots in the soft sand and it is a blessing. She breaths deeply twice and then opens the channel, she hopes her voice is not shaky, but it probably is.

“I am fine,” she responds. The gun fire has died away. Her visor tells her that Jesse is dispatching of stragglers, that Hana is deboarding her MEKA, that Angela is coming toward her.

“Your vitals are all over the place,” Angela says, her voice efficient and precise. “Are you hurt?”

“No,” Fareeha replies, “no, everything is fine.”

“What happened?”

Fareeha hears it in her ear piece, but also in the flesh as Angela lands beside her. She takes off her helmet, Angela’s eyes are doing a quick analysis.

Fareeha knows she cannot hide it anymore, she wipes the sweat from her brow. Avoids the doctor’s eyes.

“It was just-” she stops, clears her throat, “just a panic attack.”

Angela watches her for a few moments, seems to think deeply for too long. And then asks:

“How long has this been going on for, Fareeha?”

It’s not disapproval, not really. It would be hard to call it anger either. It’s … something else. Something Fareeha cannot name. Which seems to be a trend in her life.

“Since I joined Helix,” Fareeha admits. “I have a … small fear of heights.”

Angela raises her hand, as if to brush it across Fareeha’s cheek, and then falls short, let’s it rest back at her side.

“You should have told me about this sooner,” she says, “as your doctor, I should know these things.”

“You should not have forced me to let you monitor my condition,” Fareeha retorts, “I should be allowed to decide what I share.”

Mercy frowns, the crease between her brows deepens.

“Normally,” she says after a moment, “I would agree with you. But you are part of a unit and there are certain liberties you forfeit when you join an organization like this.”

Fareeha knows. She knows because she is a solider. This is the life she has chosen.

“I know.”

“These repeated attacks are not good for your heart,” Mercy continues.

“I know,” Fareeha repeats, feels genuinely bad.

“I-” Mercy stops, considers her next words, moves forward: “I worry about you,” she says, “let me help you.”

There is not a word for the flutter in Fareeha’s chest which feels like it could be a panic attack, in a different life, but in this one is so much more pleasant - more filling. Not a word she knows, not a thing she could articulate, but she feels it just the same.

“I’m sorry,” she says. Not for the reluctance, not for not saying it earlier. If it happened all over; Fareeha would not change a thing. Only sorry for the worry. She never wanted to make Angela worry for her.

“Me, too,” Angela replies. There’s a lot of depth to it.


End file.
